In my meditation
There was a giant red wave
Curling endlessly like
A sleeping bag rolled tight
Like a crepe about to burst
That never broke.
A native’s chanting
That would normally give me chills
Instead enhanced my stillness.
My soul must have been
Part of the wilderness, I thought
As the train rattled.
The drum beat of my iPod held steady,
My third eye opened wider, releasing
The coil of red,
And grew alive with softer pinks and purples flowering swirling, rich green appearing layered and three dimensional.
So many signs In such a short while:
My stepdaughters’ great-grandfather’s passing,
A larger than life Native American man, I was told
Who took care of everything,
Was kind and giving.
The first post at the top
Of my news feed this morning,
From a new Facebook friend, of darker skin than me, of whom I have a deeper connection with than hometown friends I have known twenty plus years,
His stern warning to the people of our country, to stay out of others’ affairs and be wary of the curse that comes along with taking another man’s land and rights to live free away for selfish gain.
All of the cardinals flying lowly past my car, my feet
Swarming my mother-in-law’s feeder, down by the train station in Poughkeepsie too,
Sharply transmitting their bigger than life shamanic message to
Love and have pride In the entire tribe,
To treat relationships past and presently tenderly.
In theory, spirit and heart Let all ghosts hang low,
Come and go So that greater connection can be felt
To the benefit of all,
And the Oneness of existence,
That we are not limited or bound
To ancestral time and environmental place, level of education, occupation, athletic prowess, body, age, perceived level of enlightenment, and the list goes on,
Well beyond what anyone could summon up the stupidity to bullet point.
Some things are just better left undone since they can never be completed by someone without the codes to the unknown.
The message to me is like water,
Serve first and foremost, what is clearly good,
And if you can’t make right what isn’t let it go.
Author: Joseph J. Treubig
Volunteer Editor: Kim Haas / Editor: Catherine Monkman
Photo: Hartwig HKD/Flickr